Rift
by Acharion
Summary: Elrond and Elros have to find a way to get along with Maglor at some point. Maglor's gift of song is reestablished.
1. Chapter 1

Big thanks to my beta reader Maglor Makalaure. Go read their piece "The Starlit Sky", because it was a big inspiration for this little bit.

As always, I don't own anything. I care about what my readers think and if you want to talk Tolkien, then let's go to town!

* * *

_Elrond_

It had been Elros' fault that the rift between Maglor and us had been somewhat mended. Nearly a year had passed since we had come to Amon Ereb, the fortress of the Fëanorians that was slowly crumbling into ruin. They were too busy holding back the forces of Morgoth to focus much on the condition of the castle, I suppose, but it's deteriorating state only added to the sense of dread we felt there. Compared to the bright and airy city of Sirion, it felt like a tomb.

We'd been let out early from our lessons because Maedhros had returned unexpectedly, and Maglor wished to meet with his brother. And so we were discarded out into the grounds to fill our time until dinner. Maglor wanted us all to dine together, as if he thought that would bring us closer and heal the hurts that he had committed against my brother and me. I vowed they would never have my love or appreciation, taking us as they did. But perhaps the _Fëanorian_s were more clever than I gave them credit for, because they eventually did earn it.

The day was bright and Elros and I were free to do as we pleased, a rare pleasure. Snow had fallen overnight, a brilliant white carpet that transformed everything, making our usual haunts unexplored territory. We had thrown snowballs and built our own fortresses, shadowed in the heights of Amon Ereb's high walls. The biting air was a refreshing change from the stuffy chamber where our lessons were held. Early in our play, Elros had cast his fur-lined cloak aside saying that he was more than warm enough. Soon our hair was damp from the snow and thick layers of frost covered our shoes and gloves. For the afternoon, at least, we were allowed to be carefree children again.

The past year had been hard. Not as hard as the years that would follow, but difficult all the same. Maglor and Maedhros had ripped us away from our home and brought us to this cold, unfamiliar place, far from any reach of aid.

Our time there had been filled with subtle defiances and angry words. Maglor, for the most part, had ignored our poor behavior, perhaps thinking it not worth his time to correct us. But his eyes were dark and filled with horrors we could scarcely understand, and he frightened us. We were stuck with the Kinslayers who had put our city to fire and there was nothing we could do. No one was coming to save us as we had once hoped. In slow strides, we had mostly put aside the open hostility, but our interactions were still chilled.

I was frightened of Maglor, but Maedhros was even more terrifying. He was a walking mountain, tall enough that even his tall brother stood almost a head below him. He was a hulking shade that wandered in and out of our lives, appearing suddenly when he returned from hunts or councils and disappearing just as quickly. His unusual red hair and missing hand did nothing to calm my fear. He was strange and dark and looming, and I dreaded the times when he would return.

But he looked at us with an odd gaze, as though it was he who was scared of us. As if, even though we had been here for a long and difficult year, he did not know us or expect us. As if we reminded him of something he did not want to put words to.

That night we came to dinner, cleaned of our earlier fights in the snow. Uncharacteristically, Elros had been dragging his feet behind me, from the baths to our quarters to the dining parlor, but I thought his actions could be attributed to displeasure that we had to sit with our abductors. It was an uncomfortable meal, as were all the meals we took with the brothers. Maedhros was silent and brooding and still dressed in his rough travelling gear. He was splattered with mud and other, darker stains, and I thought that he looked very little like an Elf who had once been King of the Noldor. Maglor was trying to make some sort of conversation with his quiet sibling, but in the obscure and beautiful tongue that they shared and there was no way we could participate. Elros was picking at his food, moving bits of potato around and looking dejected for a long time before Maglor noticed.

When Maglor finally turned his gaze to us, I realized how wretched my brother looked. His face was grey but still flushed, as if he had only recently come in out of the snow that covered the grounds. Maglor's hand shot out to press against his forehead. Although we had never been struck by either of our captors, Elros still flinched from the contact. Maglor seemed to pay this little mind and held his hand there for a moment, before grazing long white fingers, calloused by sword hilts and harp strings, down to my brother's reddened cheeks.

"You're burning, child." He said quietly, in the Sindarin we could finally understand. Elros turned his fevered, clouded eyes up pleadingly to Maglor, thankful that Kinslayer seemed to recognize his pain. "Were you boys outside all afternoon?" Elros didn't respond, so I nodded. Was Maglor really so oblivious to us that he didn't even know where we'd been all day?

"Come then, we'll get you some medicine and put you to bed." Maglor escorted my brother from the dining chamber and I was to be left alone with Maedhros, a horrifying prospect. But thankfully he ignored me, bent over his dinner and drinking wine as if it was more sustaining than the food before him. The silence was oppressive and found myself wishing Maglor was there to break it with his one-sided conversation.

Maedhros had always seemed to me like some sort of beast, and I watched him with curiosity. He was so large and so many of his actions were coarse. He cut his meat apart, almost savagely, with a deadly sharp knife before spearing it on his fork. [Maglor knew how to eat with some sort of grace, so it was not a family trait. I tried to remember how the men at court in Sirion had behaved, but I couldn't imagine the captains and advisors I'd known acting like him.] Maybe it was the natural progression of things when you have only one hand to do all your daily tasks. It was not a thought that had occurred to me before. Perhaps he was not so beastly as I had believed, but simply burdened with his handicap. I shifted my fork to my left hand and tried to eat in the way he did. I was unsuccessful. I could grab a few bits, but in a clumsy way and most of my food fell to the plate before it made its way to my mouth.

Before long I realized he was staring at me, his gaze as heavy as lead.

"Are you finished?" I'm still unsure if he was asking if I was done with my dinner or telling me to stop imitating him. Whichever it was, I could answer yes. He went on before I could reply.

"Go and see to your brother then." His voice was gravelly and he turned away from me. I fled from the room, thankful to escape from the bright light of Maedhros' eyes.

* * *

_Maglor_

Elros had been following my admittedly quick pace to the healer's quarters until we reached the stairs. It was there, as if faced with some insurmountable cliff, that he halted. He stood at the bottom whimpering and eyes brimming with unshed tears. I was several stairs up before I noticed his reluctance.

In the past year, I had tried to be patient with the children. We had wronged them terribly, like we had so many others, and brought them to his oppressive fortress that even I found distasteful at times. But I had aimed to be kind and give them what comfort they would accept. Never once had I raised hand or voice at them, and we'd fed and clothed and educated them. But they'd spurned every act of compassion I'd attempted and cowered from my touch.

My patience was wearing thin. If they would just _try_, I thought, just a little, to see that I meant them no harm and that I found this situation nearly as unappealing as they did, then everything might have been easier. I was so weary of watching their sniveling tears and enduring the brunt of their rage while Maedhros disappeared into the wilds, leaving me alone to set things right.

"Elros, come. They're just stairs."

He looked down defiantly and didn't move. "Child, is this truly the time to pick a fight and play the role of obstinate little urchin?" I thought. If he hadn't been ill I would have ignored this sulking fit and returned to my dinner, probably cold by that point. He could have stood there all night, for all I cared. But that evening I wasn't going to let him suffer so that he could prove he hated me. Fine then. In a battle of wills I was always going to win. I descended the stairs and swooped him into my arms. He stiffened reflexively and let out a piteous little cry, but it mattered little. It's advantageous that caretakers are so much larger than the children they look after.

Eventually he had relaxed somewhat, and even rested his head against my shoulder. Was that all it took? How many times, in a different world, had I lifted my baby brothers into my arms and comforted them until their tears stopped flowing? It had been so many years since I'd held a child like that. By the time we reached the healing quarters my tension had eased a bit, and I could even feel my earlier pity returning.

I collected the required herbs, shrugging off the help of the healers who were looking at the sight of me and the boy with curious stares. Elros drank down the willow bark tea with only a little complaint. I left for the rooms where the children stayed and he was sleeping fitfully in my arms by the time we arrived.

It seemed somehow wrong to leave the child alone, when he had finally submitted to my touch and he was ill. Someone had thoughtfully already built a fire in the hearth and the room was filled with the warm glow of flame.

I was weary then. The Oath slept for a while, but other troubles shackled my heart. These children we'd taken in and tried so very hard to raise loved us not. At our borders the strength of Morgoth seemed to be endlessly renewed. My father and all my brothers, save Maedhros, lay in shallow graves in Beleriand's soil. I'd bid farewell to all of them in times long past, and when Amrod had fallen I felt hardly any grief. I had begun to expect the endless destruction that our lives had become. Even Maedhros had turned into someone I scarcely knew, a shadow of himself who would barely speak to me. I feared for him, and prayed it was not only the strength of the Oath that kept his spirit chained to his body. The innocence of my childhood had slipped away, like sand through reluctant fingers, and I struggled to recall what life had been like before. In those quiet years had a simple song really been all it had taken to comfort my brothers?

The children's quarters contained a couch, so I sat, cross-legged, and arranged the sickly, dreaming boy on my lap. It was hard to sing. It had been so long since I had done so. But the weight of the child in my arms brought back vague memories of home and comfort and safety, lost, I had thought, many ages ago.

In a whispering voice, I began to sing.

* * *

_Elrond_

I ascended the stairs to the room that I shared with my brother, wary of what I would find. I hated the thought of Elros beings sick, but at least I could go to him now and comfort him, escaping the eyes of the despised Fëanorians. Approaching the room, I was assaulted by an unexpected sound, a soft and sad voice raised in song. The music halted my feet right before the doorway, and I listened for a while, mesmerized by the sweet sound. It was in the strange language that only the brothers spoke to one another and I couldn't understand the words. It was unanticipated but familiar, and when I mustered the courage to enter our room I was only slightly surprised to find Maglor, eyes closed and head tilted back, cradling my brother Elros in his arms.

We had been well-loved children in Sirion. Seldom had we gone to bed without someone tucking us in and singing us to sleep. The nights of the past year had been silent, and rest rarely came easy. As I listened to Maglor's song, the seclusion seemed to weigh down on me heavier than ever before, even more than those terrible nights at the beginning, and the strain of tension between us and our jailors all the more hard to bear.

The song came to an end, eventually, although I don't know how long I stood in the doorway. Maglor looked up then, eyes heavy, but he didn't seem surprised to see me.

"Elrond," he said, and his voice was sad and soft and distant. He seemed drained. It was a side of him that I had not witnessed before. "Do you want me to put you to bed?"

I'll admit that an ugly pang of jealousy surged through me then, that my brother should be held while I was offered a cold and empty bed, even if he was the one who was ill. Without daring to think, I crossed the room and climbed up on the couch beside my captor and my brother. This seemed to startle Maglor, almost as much as it startled me to do it.

"Will Elros be alright?" I asked when I dared to speak.

"It's only a little fever, from being out in the cold. He will feel better tomorrow."

Maglor's assurances eased my worries a bit. Had I not been so desperate for affection and fraught with loneliness I would never have done what I did next. I leaned timidly against the elder Elf's side. A moment later I felt Maglor slide his arm around my shoulders and pull me in a bit closer.

The last time we had been this close was when Maglor was threatening our lives, crazed and screaming that he would slit our throats if Gil-Galad tried to rescue us, the day I watched our last chance of salvation ride away in abandonment. Then, the Elf had smelled like blood and steel and smoke from our burning city. The armor he wore had pressed painfully into my back while his blade had been terribly cold against my neck. But there, in the quiet of our room, I found that Maglor was not as unrelenting as his armor had been. When I pressed my face into his tunic, I thought that Maglor smelled more like cloves and wine and the forest floor. I was surprised at how comforted I felt to be held in the arms of this Kinslayer.

It felt like betrayal, of my mother and my father and of our people. And yet, they were not in that room, on that couch, and Maglor was. His arms were strong and warm and he held me gently, rubbing small circles into my back. This submission was Elros' fault, I thought sleepily. I never would have done this if he had not done so first.

"Will you sing again?" I ventured, for I felt in a place where many unspeakable actions seemed obtainable. Maglor was quiet for a moment before he began. I had been living at Amon Ereb for a year. I thought that I knew his voice, but before tonight I had never heard Maglor sing and nothing had prepared me for something so sweet to issue from someone so bitter. In the encircling arms, with the low vibration of Maglor's chest against my cheek, I began to dream, or think that I did.

I could see emerald slopes dotted with flowers, orchards rippling in a clean and clear breeze under sapphire skies, and honeysuckle bushes buzzing with honey bees. And everything was suffused in a warm golden light.

For the first time in a year, I slept soundly.

* * *

_Maglor_

When I parted my lids next, Maedhros was in the doorway watching me with a queer gleam in his eyes. Whether it was a trick of the light, or my own weariness, or the lingering sounds of the song in my ears I was not sure, but in that moment I could briefly believe that I was back in Valinor. The dark walls of our fortress could easily have been Formenos, the summer home of my boyhood. That was something, but to look upon Maedhros was truly remarkable. The scars on his face from battle and torment were erased in the dim light, and his ruined limb was hidden under his travelling cloak. But most strikingly, Maedhros' features were softened and he looked young, as I had not seen him in many years.

In the doorway was not Maitimo, who had been returned to us from Thangorodrim, a broken and barely-living testament to Morgoth's cruelty; nor Maedhros, the Kinslayer. Instead it was Russandol, my eldest brother, my childhood protector and my oldest friend. A slight smile played at his lips, obviously amused at the sight before him. When he spoke, the spell was diminished but not broken.

"I haven't heard you sing that for a long time."

It was a song about Valinor, written in the safety of a lost time. Holding the children close, it was the first thing that had come to mind. "No." I agreed. "Not since Ambarussa was little."

In a way that was wholly unlike my warrior brother, he bowed his head and asked, almost shyly, "May I stay?"

I nodded. Of course he could stay. I had been desperate for him to speak openly to me since we had descended upon Sirion. Russandol entered the room and rested heavily against the boys' bed, laying his copper head down upon the furs that covered the mattress.

"What do you want to hear?"

"I don't know. Anything. Maybe that same song again." His voice was a low drawl. Tired, just as I was.

The warm firelight filling the room gave everything a shimmering, unreal quality. For a moment I thought I could see Tyelkormo's figure on the bed above Russandol's body, repairing arrows, preparing for the hunt. The twin figures of Ambarussa seemed to play at his feet. And without seeing their faces, the young forms that rested in my arms could have easily been my dark haired brothers, Carnistir and Curufinwë, nestled into my chest. I pressed my nose into Elros' head, and thought I could faintly smell Curufinwë, who was so much like our father, throwing off heat like a forge.

I leaned my head back against the cushions, surrounded by my brothers, even if it was only in a distant dream and began to sing again, contentment filling my breast and voice. An illusion, maybe, but no matter. I was willing to believe in it, if only for that night.


	2. Chapter 2

_Maglor_

I don't know how long I sang. Several hours at least before my voice finally gave out, vocal chords weary from unaccustomed exertion. The mist in my mind was still heavy though, and the apparitions of the previous night still hung around me. The fire had extinguished itself, and the only light in the room came from the red coals, still burning hot. I still might have been in Valinor, save for the fact that the small bodies at my breast were not really my brothers. No, that time was passed, and it would do no good to suspend myself in fantasies. The contentment I'd felt before was rapidly fading. Unattainable dreams of a lost life. Nothing was to be gained by pretending anymore.

Elros' fever had broken, the medicine doing its required work. Sweat dripped off him in rivulets, and when I pressed my cheek into his forehead it was no longer burning. Just the youthful heat of a life that has yet to be fully lived. Elrond was draped against me as well, though I only vaguely remembered him coming to his room.

And Russandol. My beloved brother was still on the floor, kneeling with his copper head pressed into the furs that covered Elros and Elrond's bed. Both of us slept fitfully these days, but Maedhros especially was plagued by dark dreams that threaded into his subconscious, even on the nights he drank enough wine to put most men into visionless oblivion. But tonight he was quiet, and I did not have the strength in my heart to rouse him.

I knew the boys would not like to find themselves this way in the morning, clutched in the grip of their captor. It was remarkable that they had even come to me at all.

It was a bitter fate, I thought, that I must always be destined to sing other men's children to sleep, when I had been denied my own. First my father's, then Curufin's and now Eärendil's. I had put them all to bed at one time or another, while my own arms remained empty.

And now it seemed unfair that I should (perhaps, maybe, just a bit) love these children as I had the previous ones, when they were clearly not mine to cherish. They would never care for me, as much as I might have hoped it once in a delusioned state of arrogance, thinking that the grievances between us could be forgiven and forgotten.

I disentangled myself from Elrond's tired embrace and rose slowly, Elros still in my arms. It was a skill I had forgotten I had, to dress sleeping children in their nightclothes without rousing them from slumber. I managed to do it for both Elros and Elrond, and neither stirred while I was dressing them, too deep in their dreams for my actions to wake them. Carefully, I tucked them into their bed, making sure not to disturb my brother. Three, at least, would sleep easily this night.

The boys were safely in their bed. I could relax a bit, but I knew I would not find sleep even if I sought it. I should stay, I supposed. The boys were frightened of Maedhros and I did not wish to leave them alone with him. And I would have liked to be present should Elros' fever return. I built up the fire to a crackling blaze again, draped a blanket over Maedhros, and turned to the window. I glanced at the burgundy drapes, noticing for the first time that they were riddled with moth holes. Just another sign that Ereb, once opulent with Caranthir's wealth, was crumbling away under my fingers. I'd become accustomed to the decay, but I was sure that small things like this only added to the discomfort of the children. I would have the drapes replaced tomorrow. Pulling back the curtains, still immersed in the dream-scape I had created with my voice, I half expected Telperion's silver light to flood the room. But nothing greeted me save the cold grey light shining from Isil, spilling into the darkness of the room with tendrils of night that I had never been able to enjoy. Beautiful perhaps, if I had not seen light more warm and welcoming than this in my childhood.

_Of course not. It was a dream, you fool._ A dream I could not dismiss or erase from my mind. Those sights I had sung of had once been laid before my own eyes, the same eyes that now looked out over the dreary snow-laden landscape. Those eyes had once viewed the bliss of Aman and I had abandoned it for a silly goal at which we had no chance of success. With the third jewel sailing the sky, there was nothing left for us but the Void. A doom laid before me that I could not ignore, yet could not fulfill. It burned in my chest, just as it must with Maedhros, though we had not spoken about such intimate things in years. The desire to regain the Silmarils had conquered almost all else in my life, I had deserted a loving spouse and a peaceful lifetime free of strife for the _freedom_ my father spoke of so passionately. I'm not sure what I had found in Middle Earth, but it certainly wasn't freedom. I still wore the chain of slavery, perhaps less obviously than under the Valar, but it shackled me all the same.

_Is this what you wanted for your sons, father? Is this the freedom of which you dreamed?_

Despite the pressing light of our young moon, my song still echoed, even though I would have gladly purged the room of the sound. A few moments ago it had offered a small sliver of peace, and now it only tormented me. Memories of a simple, half-forgotten life. A time when I had given my song freely to anyone who wished to listen.

_When had been the last time I'd sung_, I wondered idly. It had been years, I was sure. With cold realization, it dawned on me that it had been in the aftermath of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad.

We'd already lost so much by that point. My fortress at the Gap, at one time a beautiful stronghold where we had successfully held back Morgoth's forces for many years, was taken and now overrun with his army. (The thought of the harp I'd brought from Aman chopped for firewood and the treasures of my hoard spent on the strengthening on his armies galled me.) On the night I fled towards Himring to join my brother, I watched my horsemen burned alive on the field, withered to ash and cooking flesh and melted steel. The defeat of Finrod's army had been the final breaking point in our Siege. And Uncle Fingolfin, our King, with whom we'd finally carved out a semblance of civility, had fallen.

But Maedhros had persisted. He carefully constructed his Union, Elves and Dwarves and Men united under our shared cause. I'd been so hopeful in those days. Entranced with filial pride, I'd been certain of our success, believing with all my heart that we would finally throw Morgoth down, avenge my father's death, and reclaim what was ours. I was still filled with youthful arrogance then and hadn't yet accepted that everything my father's house touched was doomed to disintegrate into failure.

_To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass._

The song I'd sung to the boys earlier was swept away by the recollection of Mandos' words. In Ereb's shadows I shuddered and tried to block out all thought. But memory does not work like that.

When we'd finally entered the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, it was apparent that'd we'd arrived too late but we pressed forward anyway.

I think I saved Maedhros's life that day, though I doubted he knew it, so lost in grief as he was. Before the Angband's gates I had seen him cutting his way to Fingon, shouting the name of the friend dearer than I could ever be to him. He had charged blindly, driving forward to save his King, ready to spill blood and deal out vengeance to any who stood in his way. But by that point Fingon was already dead, immortal but fragile body pulverized into the ground. Against my better judgment, I had followed Maedhros into the thickest part of the battle. No matter what Maedhros destroyed in his wake, his quest was a hopeless one and I will never forget how he knelt before Fingon's broken, destroyed form and wept like a child.

I had literally dragged him out of the battle, off of Fingon's grave, smoke and fire and fear surrounding us. It was no small feat. Maedhros is nearly a head taller than I and broader of chest, clad that day in plate mail, and I think it was only the pure fear that I would lose my brother _again_ that allowed me to do what I did. As I'd pulled him back and pressed him to my chest, a flaming ball of…something (I suppose I would never know), pitted the ground near us. It left me momentarily blinded and deafened and I was sure that we would die there, my last moments wasted in a futile attempt to save my brother. In an effort to make sure we didn't end by the same unfortunate fate our cousin did. I cowered in the reeking mud and spilled viscera of friend and foe. There was nothing to breathe but black steaming smoke and I could feel my lungs burning with the dark cloud and desire for clean air. Eventually my senses cleared a bit, and the din of battle returned. The next minutes had been a blur of motion and frenzy, but I must have found a horse, one of our own, the once faithful steed of a fallen companion willing to carry us to safety.

I remember riding hard, pushing the horse until its haunches were covered in froth, Maedhros' keening wail barely audible over the screaming and explosions that surrounded us. We rode until we found a haggard camp of fellow survivors. Assembled there were a few of our captains, but most notably Turgon, who had hated us since the Helcaraxë but had emerged, unlooked for, from whatever mysterious hideaway he had built for himself. There were other lords and captains there, though I could not now tell you their names. They gathered in a despondent group, knowing how utterly we had failed at our mission.

After he had returned to us from Morgoth, Maedhros was always troubled by fits of either rage or weeping, and one could never predict which. He had dissolved into tears once when Amras merely mentioned our father, and another time had struck Celegorm full in the face for some offense so innocuous I could not even recall the details of it. Around anyone but family he had been as timid as a child hiding behind his mother's skirts for the first few years. But slowly he emerged from his cocoon of misery, and I thought with his Union that he had finally regained all that he had lost. That notion had been shattered upon the battlefield, alongside my hopes of overthrowing Morgoth.

A pennant of Fingon's army still hung, battered in the breeze, stuck into the ground by some overzealous standard-bearer, unaware that his King was dead. Maedhros had slowly dismounted our horse and gone to it, great reverence filling his eyes. I made vague protests and tried to stop him as he ripped it down from his flagstaff, but I think he did not hear me. He clutched the bright blue banner to his chest, twisting it in his hand, and wept into the silken fabric.

He wept openly, as he never did. Huge, ugly sobs that distorted his fair face. He wept for Fingon, I knew, the child (for no matter if he was King, I could not think of him as anything more than the frightened boy who had joined us in Formenos for so many summers) who had saved him from torment while I had placidly stood aside and done nothing for him.

"Maglor." He sobbed. He cried out my name in his sorrow.

I was never the statesman that Maedhros was. I'm sure he, if not currently encumbered, would have found a way to graciously silence his companion while remaining commanding to his attending counsellors. But I was not Maedhros. I thought it best to turn away then, to ignore Maedhros' pleas and address the other generals of war who had managed to survive, but Maedhros' voice cut through it all, pointed and horrible like a knife. "Maglor!' he repeated, knees crumpling beneath the terrible weight of guilt he endured. I couldn't turn to him. I had a duty to do, to serve our realms and represent the Union with a brave face that I certainly didn't feel.

"Maglor! We were close! We were so close!" A sob choked his voice for a moment. "I felt them! Did you not? I could feel them! _He _was watching us. And he wears them upon his crown to mock us in our desperation, and he was watching us. Watching our defeat!' I had no choice but to spring to his side and hope that I could silence him before he said any more. A gratuitous show of emotion might be acceptable for Fingon's death, but an open declaration of longing for the Silmarils? Of course we had planned to storm the dark fortress if we were victorious and take back what was ours, but we hadn't shared that part of the plan with everyone present, and I didn't wish to do so now. I know that Maedhros, in his more sane moments, would not have done so. And so I tried to quiet him.

I hadn't felt it before, but his assertions made me realize that the pain in my heart was not only grief, but the burning torture of the Oath, once again thwarted.

"Shh, Maedhros, it's all right. We will have them again. I promise. You and I, you and I, I promise! We will one day hold them in our hands again!" I whispered, my voice ragged with crying out maneuvers to our men and with the thick smoke I had choked on moments before (hours? days? Every moment had been stretched out into an excruciating age of time, I wasn't sure), trying to bring comfort to one who was utterly lost. If he had any faculties left he would have seen what an empty promise it was. Sobbing, he pressed his face into the junction of my neck and shoulder. Undone with heaving, wracking cries, he was overtaken and I was not sure what to do. Turning to his captains, I was surprised to see that they did not regard their lord with disgust, but also had tears in their eyes. I was shocked to realize then that my own cheeks were wet with the unnumbered tears that would wash that battlefield. Looking to his officers, I said meekly, "I need to take him...get him away from here," and they merely nodded, understanding the gravity of the grief that Maedhros bore.

Only Turgon regarded us coldly, in his sterile, detached way, blaming my brother and me for perceived betrayal and his brother's death.

It was more than I could bear, and I'd turned my head back into Maedhros' gentle locks of hair, letting my own tears spill into the crimson fall of strands, struggling to contain my emotions. I had seen battle before, I had watched my friends torn to bits on the swords of Morgoth. But that annihilation, the complete destruction of our forces and the failure of what should have been such a glorious victory, was so horribly bitter.

I'd ordered our men to head south, hopefully to find safety there. I suppose they did that, though I made no effort to confirm their movements. I took Maedhros with me, him barely conscious and always clutching Fingon's pale banner to his chest, and headed south on a more Easterly course in search of our brothers. I thought that some of them might still live, though I'd had no word of them.

And one night, beside our pitiful campfire, searching unsuccessfully for our brothers in the wilds of _Ossiriand_, had been the last night that I had sung.

I tried to weave a lament for Fingon, destroyed so unjustly in my brother's fruitless battle. Usually I am gifted with words. It has seemed at times that a whole assortment of them are simply strewn at my feet, waiting for me to pluck the perfect ones out of the bunch. Ready to be assembled into song that could either bring my listeners to bright laughter or melancholy tears. But on that night it was not so, and anything I devised came out choked and hollow, nothing befitting our fallen cousin and king. My voice was still ragged from the smothering smoke and I hated every sound that issued from my mouth. I sang for a while, while Maedhros slept with his head in my lap, until emotion and failure overcame me. I bent my head into my brother's hair and wept, filled with anger and sorrow and loss and grief. I wept like I never had before, until I thought I would be sick. When my reserves of tears were finally emptied, I tried a shaky note, and found that my voice, once beautiful, once my only source of pride, was still ravaged and could not sing again.

That had been so many years ago, and I had never dared sing since. I did play my harp for our people; it gave them hope, they said, though that seemed dubious.

I thought it was a gift I had locked away, perhaps never to use again. But the two sleeping children behind me had dragged it out of my soul, and I wondered at that. I had taken them as hostages, but also as a pathetic attempt to do something right for once. Seemingly, I had failed at that as well. We had struggled against one another in the past year in an exhausting battle of wills. I felt a sense of pride on their behalf that they had managed to be as brave as they had been in the home of their captor. And with that thought came (yet another) pang of guilt that I should ever, even once, have been annoyed by their tears. For was it not my hand that wrought the crowns of fear and grief they wore? I vowed that come morning I would try to repair the rift that divided us.

Bathed in Isil's cold light, I stared out of the window and pondered how to begin such an arduous task.

* * *

I thought this was a oneshot, but some kind reviews brought out another 3,000 words (that's what reviews do, people) and it looks like there might be more to come! Please let me know what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong! Or if you just want to chat, I'm just chillin' here :)


	3. Chapter 3

_Elrond_

I awoke in the early morning, as light first began to filter in through the paned windows. I was tucked into my bed, white linen scratching at my chin, and Elros was beside me. He was warm, but no longer fevered I realized thankfully. I was wearing nightclothes I didn't remember being dressed in, and I certainly didn't remember being put to bed. Maglor was in our chambers still, just a dark outline against the casement. He stood motionless, one hand hooked at the back of his neck. It was snowing again, big wet chunks of snow beating against the window, and it made me think of giant white moths battering themselves against the glass of a lantern, trying unsuccessfully to gain access to the light contained within.

I tried to dig deeper into our blankets, hoping that my movements would be disguised as the quiet actions of sleep, but I could feel a pressure against my legs. Glancing down, I was horrified to see Maedhros' crimson head pinning the blankets to the mattress, asleep in a position that did not seem the least bit comfortable. I couldn't imagine what he was doing here and I feared to wake him, so I lay motionless for many long moments and pondered the previous night.

I had been so fearful when I realized that my brother was sick, and the only hope of help we had was our captors. I had, in fact, half-expected that Maglor would ignore Elros' need and let him endure his illness unaided. But the Kinslayer had at least taken some action to heal my brother and for that I was thankful.

But it was Maglor's voice that needled my thoughts. I had slept under a gentle cloak of song, and instead of being haunted by the usual images of death and blood that filled my dreams, I had seen only peaceful landscapes. Though I was grateful for a night of respite, I found myself annoyed, as if he had tricked us into coming close to him. The sweet melody of his voice had intoxicated my common sense, and I felt vulnerable and betrayed. It was wrong, I thought, terribly wrong that I had gone to him for comfort, even if I was dismayed at the idea of being alone last night. It was a strange and dangerous talent he held, to make friends out of enemies, and I should have known better than to be deceived by it. He had murdered our kin, he had stolen my mother from me, he had captured me against my will and then somehow gained my confidence, if only for a few hours. But I knew in my heart that I should never trust Maglor or Maedhros ever, for their souls were comprised of nothing but evil. Weren't they?

And after last night's hideous dishonesty, Maglor had the audacity to remain in our room nonchalantly, the one safe haven that still remained to us. I didn't know if I could feel secure here anymore if he was able to freely enter our chambers. He was not welcome here and should have known as much.

My thoughts were interrupted by Maedhros' stirring, perhaps from my earlier movement. His head lolled off the mattress and sunk down on his chest, mouth gaping in an impressive yawn. With his left hand, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blinked a few times, inspecting his unexpected surroundings.

"Maglor?" His voice was quiet, not as harsh as I was used to hearing. He heaved himself up and a blanket, one of our blankets I noticed with annoyance, pooled around his feet.

He stretched out, and I have to admit that he was not as frightening as usual when he was still burdened with sleep, dressed in his rumpled travelling clothes from the evening before.

"Mmmhmm," Maglor replied, not moving from his position in front of the window.

"Did I sleep all night?" Maedhros asked. Maglor nodded slightly. "I never sleep through the night," he replied, running a hand through his tangled hair before stooping to retrieve the cover that had dropped off him. "You even tucked me in," he said, a jokingly reproachful tone to his voice. Maglor could have folded the blanket quicker and easier, but he didn't turn to aid his brother. Maedhros got it into a semblance of neatness and dropped it onto our bed. "Maglor, I forgot how much I enjoy hearing you sing. It was beautiful, it really was. I haven't heard you sing since..." He trailed off, and I knew it was a point of tension between them.

"Since the Nirnaeth," whispered Maglor. He had sung for just us when he hadn't for so long?

"No, not since then. Maglor?" he ventured quietly.

"Yes?"

When Maedhros continued, his voice was halted and meek. He spoke in Sindarin, confirming what I had already suspected. They did not speak in Quenya out of habit, but merely to exclude us from conversation when they thought we were listening. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for all that's happened since then. I know...I know I haven't been a good brother. I know you've tried to take care of me since then, as you always have. And I...I haven't done what I should have. I have never tried to thank you. I've never tried to make things right between us. But I know I burden you," he ended quietly.

"You don't burden me." I could hear in Maglor's flat voice that it was a lie.

"I do! I know I do." Maedhros walked to his brother then and placed a hand on his shoulder, slowly turning him around. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Maglor. Maglor, I love you. You know that at least, right?"

A single tear slid down Maglor's cheek, glowing silver in the growing light. I felt horribly uncomfortable. This was obviously an intimate moment that I was not meant to see, and I shut my eyes tight hoping that I wouldn't be able to intrude further if I did so. But curiosity got the better of me and I opened my eyes a fraction of an inch, peering between my eyelashes.

Maglor sniffled, an undignified sound that didn't seem to make sense coming from him.

"I know, Maedhros. I love you as well," he said as he dashed the tear away. Maedhros wrapped his arms around his brother, pulling him into a tight embrace that lasted for several moments. Never before had I witnessed such fondness between them, and when Maedhros pulled away he kissed Maglor lightly on the forehead.

"Good. Please don't guard your voice so tightly in the future." Maedhros even ventured so far as to give a tight-lipped smile with his words. And with that thought hanging in the air, he left the room, presumably to assemble himself for the day ahead.

I still didn't feel as though I could move, for to do so might reveal that I had been eavesdropping on their private conversations, even though Maglor seemed indifferent to our presence.

After a while he seemed to snap to life, shifting around the room listlessly. He tidied parchments on our desks, rearranged the books on our shelves, and finally opened our dresser and began refolding clothes that were already neatly put away. All actions that did not need to be done, but I had seen him behave in such a way before. Uncertain, skittish movements from one who must occupy their hands lest they be brought down by the weight of their thoughts. He was silent as he performed these studied, meticulous motions, but his very presence kept me awake. He finally spoke again as he wiped imaginary dust from a shelf I had cleaned just the day before.

"Elrond. You're awake." Well, that was true. I was awake. I wondered whether he knew that I had heard his earlier conversation with Maedhros, and if he would reprimand me for eavesdropping while pretending to sleep. But when he continued to speak, he didn't seem angry. "Elros' fever broke in the night. He should feel better today. Back to normal by tonight, perhaps." His voice was artificially cheery and bright and I winced a bit against the feigned tone. "That's good to hear, yes? We'll let him sleep a bit longer though, I'm sure he could use it." _We _would do nothing, I thought. I wouldn't wake my brother, and neither would Maglor, but we most certainly would not be doing it together.

Despite his happy affect, in the light of a new day he was transformed back into the Maglor I knew and hated. The Kinslayer. I didn't want to listen to his carefully constructed words that were meant to ease my mind. I didn't want to think about him aiding my brother. I didn't want to think of the gentle voice that had urged us into sleep the night before. I wanted him gone. The sooner he left, the better.

He turned to me then. His eyes were usually hard, but this morning they were circled by dark rings, reminding me of the black eyes he'd borne when he first captured us, face bloodied in the battle for the stupid, accursed gem that had ruined my life. It had been a beautiful shining light around my mother's neck for as long as I could remember, but it had not brought me any peace since it was lost. Even as a star in the sky, illuminating the night where all could see it, it only served to remind me that our father had once, long ago, abandoned us.

The purple circles under his eyes indicated that Maglor had been awake all night to look after us, but I could spare little sympathy for him then. I would have done anything to make him leave, and my pitiful attempt sounded weak even in my own ears. But even with one I hated as much as him, I had learned to be subservient and sweet most of the time, knowing that it might someday serve me well.

"Thank you for looking after Elros." In truth, I was thankful, but it was more a thankfulness to some sort of luck rather than to Maglor specifically.

He moved across the room with startling quickness, and I involuntarily shied away into the safety of blankets and pillows. Luckily he ignored the action, as he had ignored so many other rude gestures on our part in the past year. He crouched next to the bed, sitting on his heels with his elbows rested on his knees. He clasped his hands between them as if in prayer. His face was inches from mine, and despite the gentleness he had showed last night, I still was afraid of him. He lifted my chin in his hand, holding it securely forward. When he spoke, his voice was like a ragged wisp of cloud floating between us.

"Elrond, as little as you might believe it, I didn't bring you and your brother here to make you suffer, or to punish you for your mother's actions. You two are blameless in those deeds." He sighed. "I came to Sirion..." _Destroyed Sirion,_ I thought. "I came to Sirion because I had a duty to my father and my brothers and the Oath that we swore. And I brought you here because..." _You kidnapped us._ "Because I had a duty to my people, people I had sworn to keep safe. Without some sort of protection, Gil-Galad, your cousin…our cousin, would have fallen upon us and put everyone to death. I used you both. I know that, but I hope you can forgive me." He was looking at me pleadingly, begging me to understand. "And now, I have a duty to you as well. To ensure that you and your brother are cared for. If there is anything that either of you need then you should, no you must, come to me. I promise I will see to it that you do not do without." He sighed again. "You could be happy here, I think, if you allowed yourself to be."

"Are you happy here?" I dared to ask.

Maglor rose, and when he stood at his full height he was much more intimidating. I immediately regretted my words. "No." He replied simply "But I have not been happy anywhere for a very long time. And it has little to do with this place."

He stared at me for a long moment before walking to the other side of the bed to lay a long pale hand on Elros' forehead, and nodded.

"I will let you both rest a while longer, then I will see to your breakfast." He didn't look at me again as he left, and I sensed his sorrow trailing behind him like a dark cloak.


	4. Chapter 4

_Maedhros_

I'd only entered the boys' chamber once before. So when I awoke in the morning, it took several moments to realize where I was or how I had come to be there. I blinked stupidly for a moment until the memories washed over me. Maglor had _sung_! I could barely believe it. He had been silent for so long, but I'd immediately recognized his voice as I went to my room.

I don't know how things came to be so damaged between Maglor and me. At one time we were the best of friends. Even when Fingon was alive, Maglor embraced what I'd thought to be an untouchable place in my heart. I barely remembered a time before he had been born, when I was still the only child. My sweet songbird, who never failed to lift my spirits with his magical voice.

He wrote little duets for us on his piano when he was a child. I don't have the gift of music as he does, but he penned out simple plodding chords that even I could follow, to accompany the complex parts he composed for himself. I was diligent enough to beat out the steady rhythms, and he was talented enough to play even while he spoke. And we would sit for hours at that piano, heads bent close together and unfettered secrets spilling between us, sparkling notes concealing our words. Once, when Atar had come to the door and demanded my presence, Maglor had turned to him pleadingly and whimpered, "but Maitimo is still helping me!" Our father had shrugged and turned away. I'd thought it cunning at the time, but it must have been extremely obvious to our parents what we were doing, for Maglor certainly didn't need my help with his music. Still, they let us persist in that charade for many years. We'd done it one last time before leaving for our exile in Formenos, whispering fervently about our father's increasing madness and his love for the Silmarils.

And now it was just him and I again, as it had been at the beginning.

I say that I didn't know when things became damaged between us. But when I'm honest with myself, I do know. Before Doriath, Maglor had wanted to hold back, to send one more missive demanding the jewel before we attacked. But I'd warned Dior and offered him peace if he would just hand the accursed thing over, and my patience had finally been worn down. Maglor was not made for that type of blunt action, and he'd been scathing, hissing warnings to me that I'd chosen to ignore. I didn't listen to him, and he was still angry with me for it. Because even if we'd managed to destroy Menegroth, we hadn't gotten our jewel back.

And in the process we'd lost three brothers. Half of the remaining of my father's son, struck down senselessly in a wasted effort to wrest the Silmaril from Dior's grasp. I found Curufin in a wide courtyard, surrounded by his fallen enemies, face splattered with mottling gore. He clung to life still, and my last words to him had been a lie. I told him we'd gotten the Silmaril back. It was just one more thing to add to my list of sins, that I'd lied to a dying man. But Curufin had smiled vaguely with his last shreds of strength and died in my arms. Just like our father had died in my arms. And just like our father, his last thoughts had not been about his surviving son, but of the Silmarils.

Evil had wrought more evil that day. The destruction we'd caused was wicked enough, but Celegorm's men had abducted Dior's sons and led them out into the woods. I still don't know if Celegorm gave that order or if it was simply a final act of retribution from his soldiers; nobody had been willing to come forward with the details. In the end it didn't really matter, because now Celegorm was remembered for that last deed, whether he had ordered it or not.

I'd tried to find the children. I hadn't seen them, but I knew they were twins. My heart ached with the thought of Amrod and Amras, and I pictured their identical faces with Dior's black hair. I searched for days, calling for them until my voice was hoarse. I looked for them, and finally looked for their bodies, or some scrap of torn cloth or bloodstains in the snow or something to tell me what happened to them. If I had found them then perhaps I could set things right and deliver the orphans to someone who might care for them. But I could just add those little boys to my list, right underneath Curufin.

The unsuccessful hunt haunted Maglor too, even though he was too angry with me at the time to help me search for them.

If Menegroth had begun to chip away at the friendship Maglor and I shared, Sirion had destroyed it.

That day I ascended the stairways of the white tower slowly, worn weary by grief and loss. I would find my last remaining brother, and maybe—_just maybe_, I thought— things might be well. His guards were standing at the entrance to the last room of the citadel, and they let me in with only a little hesitation. I passed through the heavy wooden door to find even more destruction. Glass, shimmering like diamonds, littered the floor. Books, papers, maps were everywhere. Nothing remained untouched. I knew my brother as I knew no one else, and I understood that a great fury must have taken him to overturn the office in the way he had. A guard from our army, one of Maglor's own force, lay dead upon the floor, an unsightly gash rending his armor. Blood pooled around the lifeless form of an elf I might have known. In another age I might have called him a friend, but now he was yet another deserted body to step over.

And amid the ruin, sat Maglor.

The smoke that entered the room might have been harsh, but it bathed him in a warm diffuse glow, swirling around his carefully poised form. He sat at the oaken desk, basked in light from the meek sunbeams that had decided to filter through the windows, chaos wrought by his hand all around him. But he sat uncaring, as if nothing could touch him. He looked beautiful to me then, tendrils of dark hair sneaking out of their braids stuck to his cheeks, as if he had simply spent too many hours toiling over books in our father's stuffy library. Basked in gentle sunlight that I thought well-befitted my slightly younger brother. I saw him as he once was, a quiet spirit that deserved nothing but peaceful light.

That spell was diminished somewhat as I looked more closely at his face. His nose was broken, and two black bruises were blossoming under his eyes, hideous circles of violence. Blood, hastily and carelessly wiped away, still stained his lips and chin pink. Maglor has always looked to me like a charcoal drawing, all pale skin and dark hair and silver eyes. Just a black and white image against whatever landscape he stood before. He had color on his face now, but it was not how I wanted to see it.

To say that Maglor was not good with a sword would have been a lie. He knew how to kill. But when our father had instructed us in Formenos, Maglor had always been the last to arrive at the lessons and the first to depart. He had tried to be a good student, but he just hadn't cared as much as the rest of us. He was hesitant, where we were not. It had been at Alqualondë, I suppose, that he realized the sharp steel of his blade could save his own life. He knew how to fight from our father, but he'd really learned on the battlefields of Middle Earth. In battle, he had become as rashly brave as Tyelkormo and Carnistrir throwing himself into the darkest pits of the fight. He was a talented swordsman, but he endangered his life too much, and it was always him that emerged from the confusion, alive but battered.

His broken nose gave his face a strange, swollen quality that I couldn't immediately recognize. No matter. It was a painful but harmless wound, and I knew then I would gift him a helmet with a nose guard at his next begetting day. (I'd asked him later what had happened and he'd shrugged it off saying he didn't remember. It was a ridiculous thing to say, for one does not have their nose broken, even in the heat of battle and not recall how it happened. I knew then it had been some mistake that embarrassed him and I still hadn't learned what caused his injury.)

Surrounded by chaos, he seemed at peace and patient at the desk. Solemn eyes, ringed in purple, met mine.

"Brother." Pitiful, but it was all I could think of to say.

"I saw Elwing... and her tragic descent. A strange bit of magic that was." His voice was cold, devoid of life. It invited no conversation and I drew in a sharp breath upon hearing his tone. He wasn't the brother I had known. He was different, a cold and heartless bit of person who should mean nothing to me, as little as the dead elf that lay on the floor. But he was still my brother, and I loved him even in this horrible moment.

"But I..." He waved his hand in the air and the dappled sunlight sparkled off the ring he wore on his right index finger, the finger where his wedding ring, long ago abandoned, should rest. Emeralds twinkled at me. "I have some other treasures that you might be interested to see".

I knew the piece on his hand. Twin serpents wrapped his finger with a ring of flowers that one upheld while the other devoured. It was the sigil of our Uncle Finarfin's house.

"Felagund's ring." I whispered.

"Barahir's ring! Haven't you been keeping up? I thought you liked lore!" he frowned, apparently disappointed in my lack of diligence.

"We don't steal from the dead, Maglor!" I said hoarsely.

He looked at me, and his face was a picture of sadness, prying eyes holding mine. "If the Silmaril were here, we would take it. Without hesitation. Without thought. So please do not tell me we do not steal from the dead. That would be the least grievous act we've committed." He sighed again. "That isn't all. I have better prizes than a silly ring." He looked pointedly at the closet door, splattered in blood.

"What have you done?"

"I've done nothing! Look and see!"

I approached the crimson splattered closet. When I reached my hand out Maglor said quietly "Be careful, they're armed!"

I don't know what I expected then. A band of revengeful guards, eager to have my blood on their blades, perhaps. Battered warriors who would stop at nothing to live. But that was not what I found. I found two terrified children, quivering in the corner, one of whom brandished a dagger bravely. Their dark eyes hated me immediately. The anger in their gazes reminded me of Turgon. And the fairness of their young faces could have easily been Dior in his youth.

Elwing's sons.

I tore the dagger out of the boy's hand and threw it across the room. It clattered to the ground with a ringing sound that didn't even make Maglor blink.

For the moment I could ignore the children; They were no threat. Put them carefully out of mind, as I had with their uncles, so that I could obtain some sort of semblance of peace. Why must the same torments be belched out of my wrongdoing once again? Ghosts from my past, thrust into my face, from evil deeds that I had failed to mend.

"Don't you even care that the Silmaril was lost?" I cried.

Maglor stared at me, and his eyes were deep and lost. Maybe he felt the weight of destruction as I did.

"I do care." Slowly, heavily. "I care more than you can ever know. But what do you want me to do? Grow wings and bring it back? I can't make this right."

If there was anyone I knew who should have been able to grow wings, it was my songbird brother. I, with little sense left in my mind, hated him them that he could not just sprout wings out of his back. He should have been able to. He sang like a bird; he should be able to fly like one too!

"And the children?!" I yelled, not caring that the guards outside could hear. "You're no better than Celegorm!"

He rose from the desk then, with startling speed, and was suddenly in my face. "Don't you dare say that! Don't you dare compare me to him!" His jaw tensed and he contained his emotions. "I'm not killing them. They'll be good hostages. Let the people of Sirion see what they gave away. And if Elwing returns, we can dangle her children in front of her."

"I spoke to her of her children and she didn't listen."

"Well perhaps she will listen in the future." He spoke with a certainty I could not understand. "And what am I going to do? Leave them here?" His tone was once more relaxed, lazy even. He wandered over to the desk again with an ease I did not feel at all. How, _how_ could he be so casual in this moment? He sat again, and in a different world he could have belonged there as if that place were made for him. If smoke hadn't been curling thorough the windows and blood wasn't staining the floor. For a moment I understood how he had been King in my absence.

"We take them, and we ensure peace for our people. No retaliation will come from Sirion or Balar while we have the children. And…" his voice faltered. "They are orphans now, Maedhros." He looked up, almost pleadingly, like a child who has found a wounded animal and wants to keep it. "We made sure of that. Do you want to leave them to this? What is left to them here? To be princes of ash and death?" He sighed. "Those are our titles, brother. I won't suffer others to hold them."

I could scarcely believe it, but I could see now that Maglor was worn. He hated all of this almost as much as I did.

"We'll take them, and do what is right." I could almost imagine Maglor's voice was hollow. "They are too useful to leave. We will bring them to Amon Ereb, and…and….I don't know. We'll fix this through them."

I looked again at the trembling children, trying to hide from our sight. They were terrified. And the memories of two similar dark-headed boys clouded my head.

Maglor's long eyelashes were fixed down on the ring again, removed now from his hand and held between forefinger and thumb. "This is rough. Father could have made it much better. Curufin even could have made it better than this."

I had seen the ring on Finrods's own finger and knew it was anything but rough. Of course Father or Curufin could have made it better, but what did that matter? Irrationally, Maglor's words angered me and before I could stop myself, the words were past my lips.

"Amras is dead." I didn't soften the news at all. I was trying to wound Maglor, trying to bring him back into the life that I currently inhabited. A cold bitter world that was almost opaque with blood and death.

He didn't look up, still fixated upon the ring. "I know." It was a breath. Barely formed words on the air. "I saw him fall. It was in a rain of arrows." He looked up at me then, our uneager gazes meeting over the destroyed council room. "It was swift. He didn't suffer." It was a relief, I suppose, but an empty one. I would rather have my youngest brother alive.

Maglor sighed. "We won't have to cut our way out of Sirion if we have these children. There will be less bloodshed."

Less bloodshed, I wondered. As if that mattered anymore.

I tried to convince him otherwise. I recited off a long list of reasons why his plan was a bad one. Ereb wasn't made for children, it was made for soldiers. We certainly weren't suitable caretakers for such young ones. Gil-Galad was their cousin and it was best if they were with family ("We _are_ family; we are their cousins too," Maglor had reminded me). We didn't have the resources to raise and educate them. We should be busy with rebuilding our army. And the oath. The oath must be fulfilled, and how did he expect to do that with children underfoot? I'd said it all within hearing of the children, which I realized later had just presented them with a litany of reasons to hate us all the more.

But Maglor had persisted, had pocketed Finrod's ring, and the four of us rode out of the city in secret that very night.

Maglor and I had our last large argument in the aftermath of Sirion. It had been terrible. The children were right there, in our care for less than two days. I lay on my bedroll that night, still seething, when I realized with horror that we'd fought over Amras' freshly dug grave. Maglor and I had screamed at each other, and I'm sure if we'd been younger it would have come to physical blows. In that argument we'd drudged up so many past disagreements that by the end we weren't even yelling about the hostages anymore. Finally, wanting an end to it, I'd pointed a finger in his face simply because I knew it would infuriate him and shouted: "Fine! Fine, Maglor! But they're your problem now, not mine!" I didn't want to take them, I didn't want any part in raising them, and I didn't want them in my home. But a year later, they were still here.

Maglor and I didn't speak to each other for nearly a month after we'd returned to Amon Ereb. We'd pointedly avoided each other, and when we were finally forced to discuss some matter concerning the running of our fortress, he'd been so cold that it was like a stranger sat before me. All of my brothers were cursed with Fëanor's temper, but Maglor had always been different. He didn't hold grudges, and although he could be just as heated as Caranthir in argument, the flame of his anger usually burned itself out quickly. So I knew that I was now mostly responsible for the distance that had grown between us.

I hoped my apology that morning had done something to repair it. I missed him terribly, but I also knew that there would always be tension between us as long as the boys remained in his care.

I was haunted when I looked at them, a daily reminder of my failures and the evil deeds of my brother. How Maglor could stand to be around them still mystified me. But he was fond of children. He always had been. And I worried for him now, that he had only taken them to relieve his heart of the grief that he had never had his own. I knew there was nothing to be had for him but pain if he became attached to them at all. For we couldn't keep them with us forever. One day they would have to be turned over to Gil-Galad. To make little Fëanorion loyalists out of them would mar their lives more surely than to swiftly kill them in Sirion.

They were scared of me, and I'll admit that I did little to change their opinions. With my scars and my stump and the gloomy bearing I'd cultivated, many people were scared of me these days. I was perfectly content to let them be frightened if it meant they kept their distance.

And yet, they had gotten Maglor to sing. To _sing_! I hadn't heard him sing in nearly seventy years. When all my brothers and I, in the last years we had spent together, had literally begged him following the Nírnaeth! If he hadn't confirmed it to me this morning, I would have thought it a wild but welcome dream. And if those two little children had coaxed my brother's gift from him, and I once again might be a recipient of that gift, then I could hardly resent their presence here.

I was ill at heart, and each day had turned into a dull relentless slog. A monotonous, boring string of time, endlessly repetitive and utterly exhausting. The oath pushed me forward, but little else. I rarely slept, my dreams disturbed by the faces of those whose lives I'd taken. But if Maglor would sing for me again, then there might still be a glimmer of something bright in my life. A light more dear to me than any the Silmarils could emit.

* * *

My second favorite character is hanging around this story and doesn't have a chapter? Blasphemy. Had to fix that.  
Love your reviews...they inspire me to write more.


End file.
